


The Lovely Housewife, Billions in Debt

by flancakes (remifura)



Category: Real Person Fiction, Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Camboy Jerma, Chastity Device, Forced Feminization, Masturbation, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-20
Updated: 2021-03-20
Packaged: 2021-03-29 01:35:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30148746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/remifura/pseuds/flancakes
Summary: “F-faggot streamer, right? Whatever, whatever. That’s--That’s really mean to say, y-you guys.” He’s cool, though, he has to be. He’s not supposed to enjoy this, he’s got to make this seem like it definitely wasn’t the best thing he’s ever felt, and moves to look at his caged cock, trying to ignore how blissfully pitiful this whole thing was. It aches.“You’re the perverted ones here, chat,--Not me! I-I didn’t want this.”Like they’re going to believe that.
Comments: 26
Kudos: 38





	The Lovely Housewife, Billions in Debt

**Author's Note:**

> sorry jerm you just REEK wifey energy

“Guys--Chat, It’s been like, th-three hours.” The vibrator has been buzzing inside him for so long, his legs are starting to give out. “This is like, something something, thousand off the debt, right? Like, five-hundred,” His speech is cut out with a moan. “T-thousand, right?” 

He doesn’t know why he asks, vision so fuzzy, the chat is moving by so fast that any sort of confirmation is quickly lost. 

There’s a rush of pleasure every time he squirms, trying to get himself into any position doesn’t seem to give him any more relief than the last, just resulting in a surge of pleasure up his spine. There’s lube and sweat running down the back end of his thighs like waterfalls. 

With his back against the counter, he feels cornered. The pink apron wrapped lazily around him is starting to feel constricting, and all he wants to do is slip it off, but he doesn’t think he could, hands so shaky his fingers don’t seem to conversate correctly with his thoughts, though, he’s not sure he’s thinking right anymore, anyways.

A teary hiccup escapes his mouth, and soon he realizes the best he could do for himself is hitch the front of the apron up, revealing his cock, caged. He’s not allowed to touch himself until the debt is over, but any reality of that happening anytime soon was quickly lost. Whatever addiction he has given himself to get into this position was a losing battle, like his fate has been sealed. He has no one else to blame at this point, and he’s not sure if he would want to pass this to anyone else, if he even could. 

Humiliation is all he _could_ feel, perhaps all he wanted to feel, and the word feels so dizzy rolling around in his head. Is it even humiliation at this point, if he’s wanted this so badly? Faggot streamer, _faggot,_ It’s such the perfect thing to describe him with, he’s sure that’s what everyone else is thinking, now, and the description finds itself sitting on his lips. Jerma can’t help but echo it out, loudly, almost screaming in pleasure as it flows from him. 

“F-faggot streamer, right? Whatever, whatever. That’s--That’s really mean to say, y-you guys.” He’s cool, though, he has to be. He’s not supposed to enjoy this, he’s got to make this seem like it definitely wasn’t the best thing he’s ever felt, and moves to look at his caged cock, trying to ignore how blissfully pitiful this whole thing was. It aches.

“You’re the perverted ones here, chat,--Not me! I-I didn’t want this.” 

Like they’re going to believe that.

It doesn’t matter, anyways, he’s so close to cumming again that his actions reveal more than he could ever hide, face reddened, the sweat on the nape of his neck is itching, driving him mad, and he just wants, needs, someone here to itch the need of a hand around his neck, to roughly grab him. Maybe they could read the chat, the good parts, at least. They could tell him every disgusting, revolting, _deliciously_ sinister thing that is being typed, every direct insult to whatever husk of a normal person is left. Every taunt, whispered into his ear, being sent up like electric shocks. 

_“They’re calling you a mutt, Jerma,”_ Whoever would say, taking out the vibrator to stick themselves in. They’d feel so thick, so warm, better than whatever silicon product he’s stuck up there could ever feel. _“A whore,”_ They’d thrust, so rough, a pull of his hair to make him look up, to obey. _“Is that true?”_

 _“It’s true.”_ His voice would come out to them in a mutter, a whimper. _“Please don’t stop.”_

He just wants to be touched, so badly. It’s not even really about the debt anymore, he just needs someone to degrade him now. He doesn’t know how a simple debt, a fake one, he might add, could’ve ever gotten so twisted, so fast. But again, it doesn’t matter. Perhaps, somewhere, this was the plan all along. He doesn’t know when it got like this, when the apron was thrown into the mix, or why he even had to cage himself up. He’s not at the demands of these people--He could just log off. He could say _no,_ but he doesn’t! It just doesn’t cross his mind, it never has. It’s just in his nature, perhaps. 

He’s not really allowed to take out the vibrator, but over time, stuck in his thoughts, his leg has found itself propped up onto the counter, one of his hands thrusting it back and forth inside him. His eyes are closed, he’s still dreaming. Chat’s not going to like the lack of attention, but he guesses he can make it up with a show. 

He wishes he could read it out, to understand what’s going on in his own stream, but he can’t, so he doesn’t bother with it. He wants pointed praise, and this was the wrong place to even look for it. There’s an urge, a want, for someone to call him a good girl, to assure him this is how it’s supposed to be, to help him fuck himself _juuusttt_ right.

Everything is swimming, there’s a line of drool rolling down the side of his mouth as he hurls insults at himself in his head. He’s always been the creative type, but any variety seems to be sucked out at him. He can’t think properly, he wants someone else to just do it for him, to take charge for once. Maybe that’s why he does this, why he can’t say no, because it’s not like he has anyone else. 

The need to cum is building up inside of him, and all he can do is respond by thrusting himself faster, his other hand grabbing onto the dip of the kitchen sink’s chrome bowl with a death-grip. His foot on the tiled ground feels like it’s slipping. He can fall on his ass, later, after he cums, whatever. He just needs _this_ right _now._

There’s another hiccup, a gasp, and he feels it. There’s a spot he hits just right, perfectly, and his dick sputters in response to the stimulation. The buzzing makes him feel numb as he spurts, cum hitting on the ground in a flurried mess. He’s moaning--purring, his whole body feels so ached, sensitive, but his hand just keeps going, milking whatever he has left in him to completion. 

He can barely breathe, just huffing in awe.

When he’s done, he lets the vibrator fall to the ground. It’s dying, anyways, and his body slumps in response onto the counter. Sweat beads across his forehead, and when he rubs it off, it shines in his palm. He’s forgotten in his afterglow that he was even streaming. When he spots the computer in his blurred vision, it takes a moment for his legs to recover, to walk over, read anything that was being said.

He tries not to breathe too deeply into the microphone, but his brows furrow as he goes over everyone’s consensus of events. 

“”Cheated, cheater, Jerma you _cheated,”_ Chat, it was going to die anyways! What did you think was going to happen after three hours, oh my _God.”_ With a grumble, he looks on the floor at his mess. 

“You guys are going to end up killing me. _Fine,_ fine. Add it onto the debt, I don’t care! Christ.”

He tries to avoid flashing a smile at that.


End file.
